cardboard box algebra

it's mabon... which you probably only know if you are a pagan.
or if you've been clinging to the equinox - looking forward to the balance of dark and light.

the picture above is by samuel palmer, who was only recognized for having any talent in death. an artist's reality that is too-frequently the reality; greatness realized in darkness, when it is too late to do its creator any good.

there is a certain bravery in being the moon in the night sky - illuminating nothing; a world asleep. and yet, without it? without the moon? what would become of the tides?

i feel sorry for those artists who thought their struggle was in vein. what reward did they ever have? save being true to themselves? likely, because it was impossible for them to do anything else.

i came across a charles simic poem the other day. it's unrelated, but maybe, in some future moon-tense, where the y's and z's balance out, it's actually the answer...

nearest nameless (by charles simic)

so damn familiar
most of the time,
i don't even know you are here
my life,
my portion of eternity

a little shiver
as if the chill of the grave
is already
catching up with me --
no matter.

descartes smelled
witches burning
while he sat thinking
of a truth so obvious
we keep failing to see it

i never knew it either
till today.
when i heard a bird shriek:
the cat is coming.
and i felt myself tremble.

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